Claimed For The Italian's Revenge. Natalie RiversЧитать онлайн книгу.
trying to come to terms with the fact that her father might have taken money that wasn’t his.
‘It’s a bitter pill to swallow.’ Vasile’s heavily accented voice jarred intrusively in her ears, dripping with self-satisfaction. ‘Your precious father is not so perfect after all.’
‘I want to see proof. See the figures for myself,’ Claudia said resolutely. It was unbearable that Primo Vasile was gloating over her father’s mistake.
‘No.’ Vasile’s voice was hard. ‘There’s no time for that.’
‘Then I won’t go through with it—not without proof that it’s definitely necessary,’ Claudia said. A wave of desperation rose up through her as she realised she might really have to marry Vasile to save her father from prison.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ Vasile said, but he picked up his briefcase and pulled out a wad of documents. ‘Here’s your evidence—proof that your father ordered the money transfers into various private accounts.’
Claudia took the papers with a sinking heart. There, right in front of her eyes, were the documents to prove that her father had transferred company money into his own accounts. The numbers were huge—and there was a whole pile of transfer orders, each with her father’s characteristic signature at the bottom.
‘You’re asking too much of me,’ Claudia protested.
‘No. Your father took too much,’ Vasile said. ‘And now you must give up the money he put in trust for you—if you want to save him from prison.’
‘I don’t care about the money!’ Claudia brought her hands down to the table with a bang and her eyes snapped back up to Vasile’s hateful face.
It was true that she didn’t care about it. In her mind she had always associated the family wealth with personal loss—first the death of her real mother when she was just five years old and then her grandmother.
She’d never looked forward to her thirtieth birthday, when she was due to receive the money from her trust fund. It seemed so far away that she rarely thought about it. It had been her father’s intention that by then she would have found her own way in the world. She would only receive the money earlier if she married. That was her father’s way of providing for his grandchildren.
‘Lower your voice,’ Francesca hissed. ‘Remember where we are.’
Claudia glared across the table at her stepmother. She looked so poised and confident.
A sudden, irrational jolt of irritation jarred through her. At that moment she hated Francesca’s chic Italian style. Even now, when they were discussing something so important, Francesca still looked as if she had stepped out of the latest edition of Vogue.
‘Only you would bring us here,’ Claudia said crossly, glancing round at the opulent cream and gold room. She knew Francesca felt at home surrounded by the sophisticated splendour of the Ritz Hotel—the clink of silver teaspoons against bone china and the gentle hum of conversation was comforting to her. ‘Only you could blackmail your stepdaughter over afternoon tea at the Ritz!’
She looked down at the white tablecloth, wishing for the millionth time that her father had never married Francesca. But it wasn’t his fault. He had been devastated by the death of Claudia’s real mother and had been easy prey for the gold-digging Italian.
Even at seven years old, Claudia had not been fooled by Francesca. She’d instinctively seen through the Italian woman’s fake charm and two-faced behaviour. But her father had been blinded by grief. Out of desire for companionship, and to provide a mother for his daughter, he had fallen into Francesca’s trap. And with Francesca came her cousin, Primo Vasile, an unscrupulous businessman, keen to use Claudia’s father—and his money—in any way he could.
‘Blackmail?’ Francesca echoed, looking almost genuinely bemused. ‘No, no…it’s nothing like that. It’s just an arrangement that Primo has suggested in the interests of your father’s health.’
‘It’s blackmail,’ Claudia said frostily. ‘Don’t try to pretend it isn’t.’
‘No—’ Francesca protested.
But Vasile lifted a hand to silence her. ‘Claudia understands the situation,’ he said, fixing her with his shrewd black eyes.
She shuddered. The sound of him saying her name and the way that he smiled at her made her stomach clench in revulsion.
‘I will provide all the necessary paperwork,’ Vasile continued. ‘You just need to come to the Caribbean for our wedding and sign the documents that will keep your father from prison. Allow him to end his days peacefully in hospital.’
Claudia stared at Vasile in disgust, hardly able to believe the situation she had found herself in.
‘There is one more thing,’ Vasile added. ‘Given the fact that your father is far too ill to talk, it’s scarcely necessary to say this, but I must be absolutely clear on this point. You are never to discuss our arrangement with your father—or with anyone else. If you do, I will cut my losses by going to the police immediately.’
A flash of anger flared through Claudia at the cold-hearted way Vasile dismissed her father and at this extra barb he’d added to his blackmail—as if it wasn’t hateful enough already.
Then, suddenly, all she could think about was how much her father was suffering. Her anger evaporated and her eyes filled with tears as she pictured him—his face a pallid grey next to the starched white hospital sheets as he drifted in and out of consciousness, his terrible pain and pitiful frailty showing whenever he was awake.
‘It will be all right, darling,’ Francesca said, startling Claudia by covering her hand with her own. ‘There’s no need to get upset.’
‘My father is dying.’ She paused, struggling to speak past the sadness that was closing her throat. ‘How can you say it will be all right?’
‘I meant we can keep him happy and comfortable,’ Francesca said. ‘Protect him from any more worries.’
Claudia pressed her teeth gently into her quivering lip, momentarily overwhelmed by a barrage of conflicting emotions. She’d spent most of her life longing for a loving mother who could take care of her and comfort her when she was upset.
Now, for the first time she could remember, Francesca was trying to offer comfort. But, coming straight after joining forces with a man Claudia despised, with the purpose of blackmailing her into marriage, it was a hollow pretence.
‘You don’t care about him,’ Claudia cried. ‘You’ve never cared about him—you’ve only ever been interested in his money.’
Francesca withdrew her hand stiffly, but she did not respond to Claudia’s impassioned comment.
‘This will cheer you up,’ she said, pulling a wedding dress brochure out of her designer bag. ‘Just for inspiration, of course. After tea let’s pop down to Harrods and see what they have.’
‘I’m not going to Harrods to choose my wedding dress.’ All Claudia wanted to do was get away on her own.
‘Just for inspiration,’ her stepmother repeated. ‘Nothing off-the-peg for you, darling, but what do you think about something like this?’
Claudia looked at the fur trimmed December bride gracing the cover of the brochure.
‘It’s not exactly suitable for the Caribbean, is it?’ She picked up her bag and was on her feet before she fully realised what she was doing. She couldn’t bear to think of flying to the Tropics to present herself as a trophy bride to the despicable and vile Primo Vasile.
But the thought of her father ending his days in prison was absolutely unbearable. She would do whatever it took to spare him pain in his last few months of life.
‘Where are you going?’ Francesca asked. ‘We have plans to make.’